‘It was just an idea. No need to go looking like I’ve just told you Father Christmas isn’t real.’
‘It’s not that. You just took me by surprise.’
‘Forget it. It was daft.’
‘No, it’s not that… it’s just… I might get in. To college.’
‘You finished the sample?’
I scratch my temple, embarrassed all of a sudden. ‘Aye. Sent it in last week.’
‘Well, why didn’t you say?’ She grins, brightening. ‘Do you know what that calls for? Danny’s bottle of Pomagne that he forgot to take. Let’s finish up, try out that new toasty maker and then we’ll crack it open.’
We carry on, the room taking on the pink skies outside. It already feels more Kate than it ever did when Danny lived here. I sit in the middle of the room, on the ghost of the old coffee table, legs stretched in front of me.
‘Here we go.’ She sits next to me, a sigh of contentment as she passes a mug that fizzes and pops with amber liquid, clinking it next to mine. I pick at the edge of the cheese and ham toasty, the edges sticky and brown.
‘To new beginnings!’ She clinks her mug against mine.
‘New beginnings.’
She dips the last of her sandwich into a blob of Daddies brown sauce. ‘You off to Whitby tomorrow?’
‘Yep.’ I glance over at her as she takes a final bite.
‘You could come… if you fancy it?’
‘Got to be here for the delivery, haven’t I?’ She wipes the crumbs on her shorts.
‘Do you want me to stay? Give you a hand? I don’t have to go.’
‘Nah, you’re alright. You look forward to it all year. And who knows, Alice might show up.’
Outside, an ice-cream van plays Popeye the Sailor Man.
She picks at a stray thread from her denim shorts.
‘I don’t know why I asked her. But I thought… It was daft. She probably won’t turn up. It’s not like she’s getting the letters anyway.’
‘It’s worth a go, eh?’
‘Aye. Maybe. I’ve decided that’s the last one; the last letter.’
Her voice softens. ‘I’m sorry, Mike. I know how much you liked her.’
‘Fancy a Cornetto?’ I ask nodding towards the open window.
‘Not at them prices. It was fifty pence last time.’
‘Fair point.’
I look to the newly painted walls, the paint on her face and the look of sympathy mixed with something else I can’t quite place. I take another sip, grimacing. ‘He liked this stuff?’
She nods, looking at the contents of her mug. ‘He has shit taste.’
I turn to face her. I’m suddenly conscious of the warmth from her leg against mine. ‘Not all the time. He loves you, doesn’t he?’
There’s a flicker of surprise, her features softening, and for a split second, the room stills. Like we’re floating in a baby-pink bubble that smells like fresh paint, sweet wine and contentment.
